She Grew Up to Be a Poet
More angel than Medusa,
no temple serpents licking
clean her ears of dark words’
fates, no ill- or fork-tongued
Cassandra she, the child hears
her future sure: swirls of stuttered
combinations of letters unstrung,
her own sweet-voiced Calliope
cajoling the spells of imagination’s
epic rides through landscapes hued
in green, metered in dotted staccato riffs.
Her paper tablet harnessed loose,
she plucks her language branch
till bare, verses stacked on back
of butterflies, their wings ink-dipped,
rendering impressions silent.
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